“Somehow, I imagine,” she mused, “that she was thinking it would be her last time at our church. I don't know what makes me think so, but she had exactly that look in her face. I do wish I could go in and tell mother all about it, but she's too old and childish to act with caution. I can't go to Nathan, either, for he'd laugh at me; he'd not only do that, but he'd tell it all over the country and drive Cynthia to meet Floyd ahead of time. No, no; I must do the best I can with Mr. Hillhouse's help. He loves her; he'd make her a good, safe husband, too, while that dare-devil would most likely tire of her in a short time, and take to drinking and leave her high and dry in some far-off place. No, Floyd won't do to risk.” The service was not well attended that morning, owing to a revival in progress at Darley. Reports of the good music and high religious excitement had drawn away a goodly number of Hillhouse's parishioners. But, considering the odd nature of the discourse he had planned, this was perhaps in the young preacher's favor. Indeed, as he sat in his high-backed chair behind the little wooden stand, which held a ponderous open Bible, a glass pitcher of water, and a tumbler, Mrs. Porter, as she and Cynthia entered and took their usual places, thought he looked as if he had not slept the preceding night. His skin was yellow, his hair stood awry, and his eyes had a queer, shifting expression. Had his wily old ally doubted that he intended to fulfil his promise to publicly touch on the matter so near to them both, she could do so no longer after he had risen and stood unconsciously swaying from side to side, as he made some formal announcements in harsh, rigid tones. Indeed, he had the appearance of a man who could have talked of only one thing, thought of only one thing, that to which his whole being was nailed. His subject was that of the sins of the fathers being visited upon their children, even to the third and fourth generations. And Mrs. Porter shrank guiltily as his almost desperate voice rang out in the still room How was it possible for those around not to suspect--to know--that she had instigated the sermon and brought her unsuspecting child there to be swerved by it from the dangerous course she was pursuing? In former sermons Hillhouse had unfailingly allowed his glance to rest on Cynthia's face, but on this occasion he looked everywhere but at her. As he proceeded, he seemed to take on confidence in his theme; his tone rose high, clear, and firm, and quivered in the sheer audacity of his aim. He showed, from that lesson, the serious responsibility resting on each individual--each prospective mother and father. Then, all at once, it dawned on the congregation that Floyd's misfortune had inspired the discourse, and each man and woman bent breathlessly forward that they might not lose a word. The picture was now most clear to their intelligences. And seeing that they understood, and were sympathetically